Mrs.
Fyne restrained her, soothed her, induced her at last to lay her head on
her pillow again, assuring her all the time that nothing this woman had
had the cruelty to say deserved to be taken to heart. The girl,
exhausted, cried quietly for a time. It may be she had noticed something
evasive in Mrs. Fyne's assurances. After a while, without stirring, she
whispered brokenly:
"That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these awful
names. Is it possible? Is it possible?"
Mrs. Fyne kept silent.
"Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne," the daughter of de Barral insisted
in the same feeble whisper.
Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terribly
trying. "Yes, thanks, I will." She leaned back in the chair with folded
arms while I poured another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went out to
pacify the dog which, tied up under the porch, had become suddenly very
indignant at somebody having the audacity to walk along the lane. Mrs.
Fyne stirred her tea for a long time, drank a little, put the cup down
and said with that air of accepting all the consequences:
"Silence would have been unfair.
Pages:
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226